The Haircut
by bejome
Summary: A yearly tradition for Simon becomes a travesty for Baz.


_Simon shaves his head every year after school, a tradition Baz knows nothing about (as far as we know). So when he comes to Simon and Penny's flat and sees this for the first time he's beyond shocked and a little flustered._

Baz

I'm making a very undignified sound right now. Its Simon. He said he'd have a surprise for me when I got home. Not that this is home. It's his home. Not mine. Although for as often as I'm here it might as well be, but that's neither here nor there right now.

It's his hair. His golden mop of curls is gone. Most of his hair is gone!

"What did you do?" I stammer, unmoving.

He's standing there - like the numpty that he is - with a rapidly falling smile. But I don't notice it right away because I'm staring at the great empty plane that is his massive dome. I almost sneer at him "well at least the inside matches the outside now" but I don't. There's no call for it really, I just can't help reverting to old habits sometimes. I've got seven years of knee jerk sneering to combat with Snow. I'm trying.

I don't really even know why it bothers me. It's his hair, he can do whatever he bloody well wants with it. It's just such a shock. I've never pictured Simon without a large crop of curls on his head, even in my most deranged fantasies. Now I'm face to face with it and I'm not sure how I feel.

Disappointed mostly. It seems strange to be hung up on something so transient, but I secretly _adore_ his hair. I'm not telling him that though.

"I do this every year." He frowns and runs a hand over the fuzz on his scalp. His eyes float upwards as if he can see what I'm seeing, only without three additional inches above his hairless head. "I thought I told you?"

I make another undignified noise, but try to pass it off as a cough, which is a pathetic ruse. I don't cough, but Snow likely won't dwell on it.

"You said you were getting a haircut. Not -" I flail a hand at him "this!"

"What, you don't like it?"

Crowley.

"I'm just surprised." I say. It's not a lie. More of a half truth.

I don't like it, but he's already looking at me like I've kicked his favorite puppy, so I'm not going to tell him that. "Besides it's not like it won't grow back."

His face finally sinks. Completely. It's almost heartbreaking. "You do hate it."

It's not a question so I can't deny it. I extend my hands as if to plead a case I can't win, but stop.

"I don't hate it," I sigh. "I'm just not used to it."

I slam my hands into my pockets and push past him towards the kitchen once I've dropped my pack. I'm not actually hungry, I just want to distract myself. Distract _him_. I don't want this to be a fight. I don't think it will be. Not a real one. It's not as if we fight all the time, or even often. Everything's been easy going for a near year long endeavor. Fiona calls it the "Honeymoon Phase", and maybe she's right. I keep thinking that this is eventually going to end. Because it has to. Because he's just so...Simon; and because I'm me. He's too good. For me. For anyone. But it's like I've come across a stray I can't say no to. I wouldn't trust anyone else with The Care and Feeding of Simon Snow. Not now.

Crowley. I think that'll be the name of my autobiography if I ever write one. Maybe I can get Bunce to do it.

But honestly. He's _sad_ I don't like his cursed hair, for magick's sake.

When I turn my head to glance at him after burying it in the fridge for half a minute, he's still wearing that stupid face and rubbing at the peach fuzz remains of his tawny mane. I can't stand it anymore. I give up.

"I'm sorry Snow," I say finally. "It looks good. It does."

This is as effective as I expected it to be with Simon. He frowns, shoving his hands into his own pockets, possibly to keep them from constantly rubbing his scalp. Like he's willing his hair to grow back. Because of me.

"It's fine," he mumbles. "It grows back fast anyway."

I smile, ceasing my rumbling through the fridge. He's still frowning, now at the floor, when I step into the forward slump of his shoulders and wrap an arm around his waist. His hair, or lack thereof now, still smells the same. At least there's that.

I honestly hate that it's gone. His hair, I mean. It was just so _him_. But I can deal with this. It doesn't change him. It doesn't change how I _feel_ about him. He knows that.

Simon

He's next to me before I know it, and I kind of hate it. Not him being close, just that he's so okay with this all of a sudden when a minute ago he definitely wanted to tear my head off. He probably thinks he hurt my feelings, when really I'm just disappointed in his reaction. I mean, it is only hair.

I really didn't think a haircut would be this big of a deal. I do this every year. But I guess Baz wouldn't know that. I let him pull me close and kiss my now fuzzy hairline. His lips stay there for a long time, and we're so close I can feel our heartbeats align.

"You have a small mole."

"Got a lot of those."

"No." Baz brings up his other hand and traces a spot where the crown and sides of my hair meet. "Right here. I could never see it when your hair was longer."

"Hmm? Oh. Yeah. I have to tell them about it when I get my hair done otherwise they could shave it off."

Baz's brow furrows when I mention that. I sense it more than I see it, though I can see the frown form from the corner of my eye.

"I should probably get it removed," I continue. "But it's honestly only a problem once a year when I get it all cut. Never remember again after that."

Baz 'hmm's to himself, then puts his other arm around my waist.

"I think I can get used to this," he says after another second. "It's already paying off." He kisses the mole, and I smile.

Baz is such a git.

But he's mine.


End file.
